INSOMNIA
by radculas
Summary: John's new marriage life is falling apart and he's haunted by nightmares. When things seem like it can't get any worse, he discovers that the consulting detective is still alive but better off dead. A fic based on my dark!AU vid because I got so many requests ( /watch?v Ov7hzxBl7kM )


_I've seen men die before. Good friends of mine. Thought I'd never sleep again but I'll sleep fine tonight. _

John massaged the cringes on the bridge of his nose and gave a ragged sigh as he remembered the words he had carelessly uttered in the past. Endless chains of thoughts and emotions washed over him like a tide, leaving him no time to pause or understand. It was pretty fucking bizarre that he could be this shattered from a death of a single friend. He's known him for only 18 months, albeit the colorful events that took place in between.

_Fuck_

He squeezed the word out and turned his head to the side. He needed to stop thinking about it. He needed to stop thinking all together. Just stop. The room was dark and silent, but John knew from the deliberate slow breathing of his wife that he had woken her up with his tossing and turning. The battered army doctor heavily slid his legs from the bed and sat up. The shirt clung to his sweat drenched torso and an unpleasant sour smell wafted. With a grunt, John mustered himself out of the bed and clambered to the en suite bathroom. Without turning on the lights, he reached for the sink and ran some cool tap water over his hands. John couldn't tell why his hands felt so wet and cold. It could have been water or sweat, but more likely to be blood.

John drummed his fingers against the arm rest and stared dead ahead towards his psychiatrist.

"What did you see last night?"

"Nothing, I slept like a log."

From the way his frail voice shook, and the sunken look in his eyes, they both knew that it was not true. She sighed, placed down her pen and laced her fingers together.

"You're not going to get anything out of this session if you don't trust me, John."

"It's not that." John swallowed and stopped tapping his fingers against the rough fabric. "I don't think I can talk about it right now."

He was peering down at the grey damp pavement from a top the roof of St Bart's that afternoon. It was the last place John Watson wanted to be in but he found himself taking the lift up before he realized. His legs had automatically carried him here. How did he get here? Who knows? Who cares? He raised his eyes to the horizon of London city. The sky was unremarkably dull around this season and specks of rain spat at his face now and then, just like that day.

_It's what people do, don't they, leave a note? _

_Leave a note when?_

_Good-bye, John._

"Hello, John."

The doctor spun around towards the source of the familiar baritone voice and gaped.

"My god…" He breathed and tensed his shoulders. The hem of the all too familiar black long coat fluttered in the wind and a part of John wondered why they were not blood stained. Sherlock smiled back at him meekly. He looked slightly pale and beaten than before but other than that, it was the Sherlock just as John had remembered. The piercing grey-blue eyes narrowed as the detective's smile widened. The lean, tall figure strode up to John swiftly and stretched out a hand. John closed his opened mouth and blinked. He took an awkward step towards Sherlock and stretched his hand out towards Sherlock's. He needed to see if it was solid. He needed to feel it before he could believe what he was seeing.

"I…" He licked his lips. His heart was pounding. This can't be right. This can't be true. "I thought you were dead." Sherlock's smile didn't change as he extended his long arms further towards John.

"I am." The voice dismissed coldly and John was greeted with a thud in the chest. Before he knew what was happening, John toppled over the edge of the roof and plummeted down to the cold hard pavement. As the icy wind gushed past him and roared in his ears, he heard the distant deep chuckle of Sherlock and his pale face was smiling sadly down at him. The last thing John noticed before he hit the hard surface was the malicious shine in Sherlock's cold blank eyes, just like the one he saw that day. Right there, where he was lying dead now, drenched in his own pool of blood…

John jerked awake with a sharp intake of breath. Mary lazily roused, her slumber disturbed by the sudden tug of the duvet.

"You okay?" She murmured and patted John softly in his sweat-drenched back.

"Yeah…yeah, I'm fine." John breathed out with a huff and tried to catch his breath. After blinking several times in the dark-ness, he was able to read the time on his bedside digital clock. 3 am. 3 fucking am…By the time John closed his eyes again, he forgot what he had just dreamt about but the unsettling sensation in his stomach and the hard thumping in his chest remained.

_John, John…_

The familiar voice echoed around him that next morning and John couldn't shut it out. He concentrated hard to ignore the murmurs as he sipped on his coffee. Noticing her husband's uncharacteristic morning silence, Mary turned to him with a mildly concerned look.

"John?" The ragged man jumped in his seat and shot his head up towards Mary.

"It's nothing." He answered after a beat.

"Sherlock…Sherlock, Sherlock…Sher…" muttered breathlessly as he stalked endlessly in the dark laboratory. His left hand which was firmly grasping the torch was clammy and John realized that he was panicking. The soldier side of him ordered himself to calm down. There's no reason to panic. Sherlock is in here somewhere. He edged closer to one of the veiled cages. All of this seemed very familiar. The smell of chemicals and the slight humming noise gave him the creeps. Baskerville, of course, how could he forget? John grasped one of the clothes covering the cage and snatched it away. The cage was empty. Gritting his teeth, he tried the other one beside. Empty again. Cursing under his breath, he uncovered the other one and stopped dead in his tracks. His knees buckled and the torch clattered to the floor. Sherlock, his friend, was lying lifelessly in the cage with crimson-black blood pooling around his crown. John scrambled open the cage and clambered beside his wounded friend. Suddenly, the air was dry and hot and John noticed that he was kneeling in the painfully hot, blood soaked Afghan sand. Sherlock's figure remained immobile. John reached down towards his friends' immobile hand to check Sherlock's pulse. It was stone cold. The army doctor swore and rolled Sherlock over on his back when there was an earsplitting explosion of noise and something hit John's left shoulder like a two ton truck. John fell on his back and writhed in pain. When he craned his neck to check on Sherlock, he realized that the figure of his wounded friend had vanished into thin air. All he could hear was the distant low mutter of _John, John…John_. John opened his mouth to scream

"STOP!" he roared and bolted upright. His hand flew to his left shoulder wound and clutched it tightly. He heard Mary huff and turn her back against him.

His psychiatrist tried to squeeze out some kind of a response from John but he was in no mood to talk about his disturbing nightly encounters.

"I don't know how to explain, but all I know is it's…it's going out of control. Okay?" John groaned and rubbed his hands against his face. "God, I need to sleep."


End file.
